


The Glass Knives

by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)



Series: Riddick 'Verse [4]
Category: Chronicles of Riddick (2004)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 12:37:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphim_grace/pseuds/DarkAthena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eve practises with knives, Vaako tells her how to do it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Glass Knives

The floor of the small sparring room was slightly sprung which gave a nice resistance despite the matting. She whirled, testing the strength of her leg now she had had the cast removed. It felt good, still weaker than the other but better than she expected. She was dressed in a simple pair of short pants and a vest, her hair tied back as she lunged and fought her shadow in the small room. There was a slight sheen of sweat but these ships had real water showers so it didn't matter. She could spend as long in them as she wanted and no one cared.

She had been given two perfectly weighted knives and was just giving them a quick run through with her work out, and it felt good.

"Your footwork is clumsy." Vaako said from the doorway. He was leaning against the jamb wearing clothes not unsimilar to hers for sparring. "You over extend on the left."

He walked in with that same animal grace that most of the necromongers had, the one that made her feel clumsy in her own skin, and opened a small box that was on a high shelf at the rear of the room. From it he pulled two glass knives. "These are training knives." He said, "the edge is sharp enough to cut but not to pierce, they will shatter if you strike them too hard, but they weigh as much as real knives. They teache delicacy. Here," he threw her one knife and she caught it out of the air. She slipped into a combat position. "Come at me."

She lunged, he sidestepped and brought he heel of his hand, the one not holding the knife, down on her ass. It caused her to double step to correct herself and when she turned he could see that his expression was plain. "Again." He said.

Every time she made a move he either parried it with a look of boredom or simply side stepped and landed his hand somewhere on her body. "Perhaps," he said, eyeing her up like she was a piece of meat, "your reputation is undeserved, maybe you even think that it is better not to hurt me." He said. "Don't hold back. Leave that to me." 

She snarled and twisted in a move that should have slashed up the side of his arm but he saw it coming and shifted position, his own knife scoring a line of fire up her back, opening the fabric of her vest. When she brought up her leg in a roundhouse kick he did not block it, as she thought he might, but instead caught her ankle and twisted her throwing her to the mat. “Clumsy,” he said bluntly. “Shall I arrange instruction for you with the lesser soldiers?”

She climbed to her feet and rolled her shoulders. “I thought the point of my existence here was that no one knew I was competent with a knife.”

Vaako raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you are so incompetent?” She lunged again and he caught her arm, and pulled her into him, patting her on the stomach. “A child can do better.” With that he threw her to the floor again. “Must I teach you the very basics?” Her back burned where he had cut her, and the breath was heavy and hot in her lungs, and he, damn him, did not even have a hair out of place. 

“You think I've got anything else to learn?” She asked, leaning on her thighs with the knife still in her hand.

“Patience.” He answered, “fluidity, langour. Those things are the core of a necromonger's skill with a knife. We use energy staves and pulse guns, but at the heart of it,” the words were being carressed as they came free of his lips, his tongue flickering out to wet them as he spoke, “it is all about the thrust and pull of a knife.” When she launched again he caught her, and pressed her body hard against his, the flat of his hand with the knife against her stomach and the other holding her other arm out, almost like a dancer. “When one fights with a knife it is like fucking an oponent, you watch where they will move, you anticipate, you taste, you smell.” He took a deep breath of her through his nose. “If they move forward then you must retreat, it is a game of,” he stopped, “give and take, of push and pull.” She could feel him against her back, solid and slightly cool in that necromonger fashion. “A knife can dart, twist, pull, like fingers in a lover, or it can thrust, rock, drive, like a cock.” Her mouth was dry and she could feel her bosoms heaving. “Don't fight with the knife, fuck with it.”

He ran his hand, the one still holding the knife down the flat of her stomach to the swell of her crotch in the trousers. “Think about that,” he said, and threw the knife down to the floor, where it shattered with the force, and letting her go, walked away.


End file.
